Why is Sherlock Blue?
by autumnzipper
Summary: Post Reichenbech Fall. Sherlock delves Molly into his past and exposes a guilty secret he has hid from everyone, including John. Possible continuation if readers think it meritable!
1. Chapter 1: Why is Sherlock Blue

Why is Sherlock Blue?

Sussurous waves of violin music undulated through Molly Hooper's flat. She had no clue what the music was named, but she could tell it was Italian, slow, and immensely sad. It wasn't quite a dirge – it sounded like the end of a Shakespeare tragedy. Of course, the music was coming from his retreat in the lounge, where he had been holed up for three months, coming and going. He never told her where he went or how long he would be gone. She hardly expected him to come back whenever she heard the door slam.

The music ceased suddenly and there was the unpleasant, uneven sound of the strings being tuned again, harshly, she might add. He seemed to take out his frustration on the instrument, which she'd purchased for him at a second hand store after he'd complained incessantly about missing his.

Hesitantly at first, the music began again, wafting back through the halls, a recognizable tune in any British household – the Doctor Who theme, melancholy and more heavy than the original. That meant he was thinking about John. John loved Doctor Who, and Sherlock would never have admitted it, but it had grown on him a little. Molly wondered if John secretly thought Sherlock was some rogue Timelord at times. He just lost his fob watch. She thought so too, once in a while.

Just as quickly, he'd switched songs again. This one sounded like one of his own compositions, and it was surprisingly light, even in its sad sort of way. Molly though she'd found her new favorite song. It reminded her of taking a walk in the country on a misty morning.

The violin screeched and the song ended. "Just come in, Molly," Sherlock stated as he opened the door, violin still in hand. His voice was low and his eyes were red, from sleep deprivation she would guess, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't sure of anything about Sherlock anymore. "I can't concentrate with people listening over my shoulder."

"Oh, umm…" Molly started to turn away down the hall again. "Sorry, I'll just go…"

He opened the door wider, and gestured with his violin that she should enter, "No, I mean… you're welcome to listen. But not behind the door, if you please." His voice was so quiet, he didn't always sound like the same person she'd known three months ago.

"Oh!" Color blossomed in her cheeks, then she remembered the teacups in her hand, "I made you a cuppa."

Sherlock looked at it, but didn't take it, "It's cold."

"I'll heat it up…" She'd been standing there for quite some time.

He took it from her quickly and took a sip awkwardly. "It doesn't matter." He offered her a smile that was genuine, despite his rather obvious apathy for the cold tea.

Sherlock was making an effort.

Molly sat opposite his fortress of pillows, books, papers, and cigarette butts. He slumped down and wiggled his way into a comfortable position, lifting the violin to his chin. He set the tea on the table.

Sherlock Holmes was living in her house. It still made her a bit bonkers. "Would you play that last song again?"

He seemed content enough to fulfill that request, though she had an inkling she'd very nearly overstepped an invisible boundary she was ignorant of.

When the last note was played, she applauded him nervously. "That was lovely. Is it one of yours?"

Sherlock put away the instrument and sat with his fingers folded beneath his chin. "No, it's not mine."

"Oh…" Molly floundered to keep him in conversation - she was always afraid he'd slip away if he stayed silent too long. And she felt like she owed it to John to try. "What's it called?"

His eyes fluttered upwards and fixe on her, "Meri." The sad face he always hid from John was back.

"Well, it's very beautiful.

"She was."

Molly froze. "Who?"

"Meri." Sherlock stared at the cold cup of tea in front of him, then looked at her. "As much as I'd like to forget, it's one memory 'it'," he pointed to his head, "won't let me delete." His fingertips were turning white where they pressed together. "Have you ever felt guilty, Molly?" He rubbed his fingers nervously through his hair several times as he asked, as if trying to assault the brain lurking underneath the mop of dark curls.

She wasn't sure what had brought this on, but she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass her up. "Of course."

"So guilty, you'd do anything to stop it? Cry, beg for mercy, murder? Have you ever felt that?" His voice fell to a deep baritone that betrayed his deep and sudden emotion. "Have you?"

"No," she had to answer.

"No." He swallowed, then chuckled. "Well, Molly Hooper, pray you never do."

"Is this about John?"

For a moment, he looked at her the way he sometimes looked at Anderson, but he covered it and only said, "If only."

"So… who is Meri?"

"No one," Sherlock answered, then stood and began to walk away, the conversation over.

"Sherlock!" Molly had a moment of undeniable courage. He always intimidated her, but she had moments of pure clarity like this when she could say what she was thinking. "Sherlock, I've told you I know about your sad face, then one you try to hide. And it doesn't matter if I see it now because I've seen it before. And I've never been exactly sure what it's from, but you know I care about you, and I don't care if you think I'm an idiot or a snoop…"

"I don't think you're an idiot," she heard him whisper.

"But I do know one thing I am to you, and that is a friend. Friends don't let friends keep the hurt pent up inside. Friends are safe places to be yourself, where you won't be judged or revolted. And I know that you aren't just the bloody brilliant exterior everyone sees. You may be amazing and a genius, but you're still human, and humans need friends. So, Sherlock Holmes, as your friend, I am telling you to stop hiding from your guilt and let me help you if I can."

Three seconds later, the door slammed shut.

Molly ran to the window. What was he thinking going out in broad daylight? Someone would recognize him!

He was standing there on the sidewalk, trying to flag down a cab.

She turned away from the window, too embarrassed to watch. There was no way he would ever come back now. She'd found the line and jumped clear over it.

There was a squeak as the front door opened. Molly spun around, beyond surprised to see him back in her doorway. He grabbed her coat off the rack and held it open for her, "Come on, the cab is waiting."

She slipped her arms in quickly. "Where are we going?"

"I need your help, Molly Hooper. One more time."

The cab was utterly silent. Sherlock watched out the window, and Molly tried to decipher where they were going. And the route seemed strangely familiar. "Are we going to the cemetery?"

Sherlock's old blue scarf crunched around his neck as he nodded. "Molly, what I am about to show you is not something I'd like spread abroad, for reasons…"

"Sherlock, I won't tell anyone. I promise. You can trust me."

Sherlock relaxed.

The cabbie dropped them off, and Sherlock paid him. Surprisingly, he didn't give Sherlock a second glance, but Molly still wondered what had possessed Sherlock.

He set off with long strides instantly and Molly walked quickly to keep up.

They stopped in front of a plain black marker. The one with his name on it. A bundle of dark pink roses lay in front of the tombstone. Molly wondered if John or Mrs. Hudson had put them there. "I made sure they'd put me here."

"Why here?"

He smiled down at her, "You didn't notice either?"  
"Notice what?"

"Course not – funny little brains, only comprehending one fact at a time. One thing holds your attention and you don't stop and look around at the bigger picture."

"Sherlock, just tell me."

He pointed to her right and Molly looked down. A little grey tombstone barely rose out of the grass, but the name was clearly inscribed.

Merrick Holmes

1992-2010

There was no superscription, no remarks. Just her name and the date.

Merrick. Meri. Wife? Mother? She did the math and scratched both those theories.

"She was my sister," Sherlock began, his voice soft and low.

"Your sister? I had no idea."

"That's how I wanted it. After her death, I wanted her to be a secret. She would just be more ammunition for my enemies. More reasons for people to pity me, or hate me, or distrust me, whatever they chose. I chose to ignore her."

"Sherlock, that's terrible."

"It was necessary," he corrected. "She wouldn't have wanted to be remembered anyway."

"How can you say that? I'm sure she would have wanted you to move on, but she would want to be remembered."

"Molly, I know it's very hard to understand us Holmes', but trust me. I know."

"No one wants to be forgotten, Sherlock!"  
"Then why did she end her own life?" Sherlock yelled at her. Molly took a step back, recoiling. "If she wanted me to think about her, why would she choose to leave me such terrible memories? All she has left me is guilt." His lower lip trembled.

Molly couldn't answer.

"As I was standing up there, waiting to fall," he continued, "All I could think was, "Is this how she felt?"."

"And how did you feel?"

Sherlock sighed, "More guilt. Because I knew it could hurt John. I knew exactly the pain he was about to experience, because I've suffered it. I know the pain of survivor's guilt. But I'm not dead, I didn't die, I didn't end it, even though I wanted to. But it doesn't make any difference because he doesn't know."

Molly started, but didn't interrupt.

"But that's exactly what she did to me." A tear slipped down his cheek. "And… and, and it makes me realize how much she must have hated me to do that. That's the only possibility, Molly, the only logical one – she must have hated me to purposefully cause me such agony. And that's why I'm guilty, Molly - I drove my sister to kill herself. I killed her, O God!" He walked away quickly, trying to flee with his tears to solitude.

"Sherlock!" She followed him and wrapped her arms around him so he couldn't go any further. "You don't have to run away whenever you think you need to hide. You're the strongest man I know, but when you cry, it just means you're human, just like me. And you need love, just like me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud you loved someone enough to cry over them."

"Molly…" he whispered, but nothing else came out. The consulting detective only cried.

When his shoulders ceased their heaving, she asked, "What was she like?"

Sherlock still clung to her. "She was the most remarkable girl. She was brilliant. And it drove her insane."

"Worse than you?"

He actually chuckled. "Worse, actually. On top of her brilliance, she'd been diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder. She was one constant yo-yo of unending stimuli. She saw everything, everything, more detail than I pick up on. And she was miserable."

"Didn't she have some kind of medication to help?"

"Oh, Mycroft found a lovely home for her with all the amenities, and the best doctors." He sighed. "We treated her as if she was some kind of burden. And we abandoned her to do our more important work." He shook his head with regret. "And now I think I understand how she felt now."

"And?"

He didn't answer, but he stood up straighter and looked down at Molly for a moment. "Little Meri." He stroked his scarf, "She gave this to me. She always remembered birthdays, tried to get Mycroft and I to get along. One year, she made us one of those wire and can telephones painted blue, hoping that we would talk to each other. We always gave presents to each other when she was alive, but when she was gone, we stopped getting presents. That's when we realized she'd been the one behind it. We practically gave up on birthdays after that."

Molly fingered the scarf. "I always thought blue was a good color for you."

"Blue. Meri said that lonely people should wear blue. Blue keeps you company." Sherlock shook his head, "She said the most nonsensical things." His mouth lifted just an inch. "Sometimes, you remind me of her."

"She sounds very sweet."

"An angel. And now she's on the side of the angels. Always was, I believe." They walked back in the direction of the grave. "You know the last thing I said to her was she need to stop complaining and put her talents to good use. To tell the truth, I was just jealous. Jealousy is a strange transformer of character." He bit his lip, then continued, "And she said to me, "It would be easier for you if I were just gone." I told her that was ridiculous. That that wasn't the answer and she was being absurd and dramatic and impossible to deal with. And she replied, "Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."."

Molly recognized it as something she'd heard Sherlock say before, and realized the weight behind his words.

"Well, her truth turned out to be an overdose that left her in a coma for a week before slipping away."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it isn't your fault, it's mine. One I will have to live with."

"You really think she hated you?"

Sherlock stared down at the grave. "Yes."

"You're wrong."

Sherlock started, then the turned to stare at her. "What?"

"You may be the most bloody brilliant man in all of England, but you are dead wrong, Sherlock Holmes."

His eyes narrowed and there was a gentle shake to his head as if she couldn't possibly understand something he didn't, but he listened anyways, "What do you mean?"

"If she died to make your life easier, because she was tired of being a burden, then she must have loved you immensely, Sherlock. Can't you see that?"

He was quiet.

"And I think you don't feel guilty because you think she hates you. It's worse than that – you feel guilty because she loved you, and you don't think you loved her back. You're sorry you didn't love her more. You think that maybe if you had loved her more, she wouldn't have done this."

She had expected him to blow up at any second. But he was still quiet. He fingered the scarf. "Bitterness is a paralytic. But love is a powerful motivator," he said the words as if he was attempting to convince himself, but unwilling yet to believe it. He bit his lip. He shut his eyes.

"Remember why you faked your death, Sherlock, why you sacrificed everything to take Moriarty down. Because you loved your friends. You sacrificed yourself for them. If you go back to those feelings, you'll know exactly how she felt about you. And she doesn't deserve to be ignored anymore."

Molly was immensely surprised to find Sherlock had slipped his hand into hers. "Molly…" He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I honestly don't know what I would do without you."

She squeezed his hand. "You would think of something."

"No, I don't think I would."

A car pulled up behind them, and Molly turned. "It's Mycroft."

Sherlock let go of her hand and turned with an exasperated sigh. "Where's a blanket when you need one?"

Mycroft came bundling over, pointing his umbrella wildly. "What were you thinking Sherlock? Get in the car before somebody sees you!" he seethed. He looked beyond them then and saw the tombstone. The umbrella lowered and he scowled. "You told her?"

"Obviously."

"Really Sherlock, you don't think you should have asked me first?"  
"No, not really. You're not my mother."

"Sometimes I think I am."

"Have you been eating donuts?"

"Oh, just get in the car, Sherlock, for heaven's sake."

"Just a moment, Mycroft." Sherlock looked down at Molly and gave her a knowing look. "What color were Merrick's eyes?"

Mycroft hesitated, then blinked. "I'm not sure…"

"Blue, Mycroft." Sherlock hopped in the backseat. "They were blue." He turned to Molly. "I told you we tried to ignore her."

"But she was an excellent cellist!" Mycroft said as he slipped in behind them. "And a ridiculous ginge!"

"Like you before you lost all yours?" Molly asked, and she saw Sherlock's eyes open wide with surprise, then he snorted in amusement.

Mycroft merely grumbled under his breath. "I am NOT a ginge."

Two weeks later:

Sherlock set the white flowers on Merrick's grave. Asphodel, which looked like lilies and gave off a sweet smell, were his flowers of choice. It was midnight, and he stood looking down at the little grey tombstone for a long time. "You know, you were the most amazing woman I've ever known. You were brilliant, you were humble. You were sweet, and witty, and clever, and beautiful, and I know that all you ever wanted was my approval. And the thing is, you had it. You always did. But my pompous head always hid it, and I was afraid of…" He twisted to look over his shoulder, then returned to the tomb and asphodel. "I was afraid of you. But I can't carry this guilt anymore, and I know that you wouldn't want me to. The angel in you wouldn't let me. And I will try, hard as I might, to be the hero that you would want me to be. I promise you, Meri." Again, he glanced behind. No one was there. He turned back and offered a smile to the empty space as he twiddled the end of his scarf. "And I love you. I wish I had told you."

He bent down to set his hand on the tombstone, sentimental as that was, but he thought it was appropriate. And in the moonlight, something white was sticking out of the ground that caught his eye. Sherlock bent down further and pulled at it. String, white string, stuck in the dirt. He looped it around his finger and gave it a yank. A whole clod of dirt came up with the string. Attached to a blue can.

Dazed for a moment, he recovered, and dug the rest out. The string ended in another can, dingy blue. By the looks of them, they had been buried for a few years. Where had they come from?

Sherlock quickly covered what he knew. Only he, Mycroft, and Molly knew about the telephone cans. Molly couldn't have put them there. Mycroft wouldn't have – that would be sentimental. And he obviously hadn't. That eliminated the impossible, which only left one person.

…to be continued


	2. Chapter 2: The Blue Phone Rings

Sherlock: The Blue Phone Rang

"I'm very glad you came, Molly."

"Oh, you know, anything to take my mind of work, you know?"

John smiled knowingly at Molly, who sat in Sherlock's old chair, sipping from a teacup John had actually washed for the occasion. Her eyes lingered on the skull on the shelf and she seemed to frown. "I used to know him, you know."

John's eyes darted between Molly and the skull with unusual speed as he leaned forward slightly. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Yeah, he was nice. Worked in the office at the morgue, some sort of accountant. He always remembered my birthday, always, brought me daisies and a coffee. I think he was lonely – never wore a wedding ring," Molly sipped away.

"Oh my…" Watson shook his head and mumbled under his breath. "I am so sorry, should I take it down?" He moved to stand up-

"No, no, it's fine! He um… he died in a house fire. I performed the autopsy."

"That's terrible, Molly, I'm very, very sorry."

"It wasn't that bad a death – smoke inhalation got him before the flames ever touched him. Still asleep in his bed. Can't ask for a more peaceful death than that, can you?" She went to take another sip, forgetting that she'd already finished it off a second before. She settled the cup and saucer down on her lap awkwardly.

"Yes. Yeah, yeah," Watson quickly agreed as settled back into his chair, "Still, I'm sorry – what was his name?"

"Fredrick Ballister. But everybody called him Freddy."

"Freddy," Watson shook his head with a bemused smile on his face as he looked upwards at the skull with new eyes. "How in the world – and why? – did Sherlock ever get a hold of his…" he tried to tread lightly. "…skull?"

Molly heard the stutter in John's voice before he said his friend's name. Even after three months, thinking about him hadn't gotten any easier. Just thinking about what a lie she was living, sitting there in his chair, letting him think about Sherlock the way he was thinking, allowing his pain to continue, she almost dropped the teacup right there. But she pressed on:

"Freddy donated his body to science. Sherlock said he needed a head for an experiment… you know how he was…"

That got a small chuckle out of John who was leaning on his hand as he listened. "… and he, what? Just decided to keep it?"

"Well, no family ever came for the body, so…" Molly shrugged. "Sherlock just sort of adopted him. I think Freddy wouldn't have minded anyways. He was really good natured, you know."

John raised an eyebrow and offered to refill her cup. "I think this goes beyond 'good natured'." He stood and took the skull off the shelf and stared into it's empty eye sockets for a moment before offering it to her. "Would you take it for me?"

Molly naturally recoiled just a bit from the skull, but more from the look in John's eye. "Why would I take it?"

"I have a feeling it's going to need a new flatmate, considering this one is going to be gone by the end of the week," John stated bluntly. "I just can't cope anymore, Molly. I can't cope with living alone in this apartment meant for two people, filled with things for two people, filled with his things."

"We could pack them-" she began.

"No, Molly, I'm sorry, but I just can't take it anymore. I've had enough. I've already applied for a post in Bath at a very well-reputed hospital, and that's it." He spread his hands as he said the last, as if to sum up everything and put an end to the discussion, which had been practically one sided.

She set the saucer aside and stood. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? She has a new boyfriend. Mhm, and she's moving on just fine," John practically yelled. "And that is exactly what I intend to do! I'm just going to go, and, and, and try to forget this whole affair."

"But you can't just forget!"

"Can't I?" He moaned and closed his eyes as he pinched his nose in frustration, but also to cover the tears threatening to push their way out. "You know, I-" he stopped and gathered himself, then sunk into the chair again. "I don't _want _to forget, Molly, but I _have _to, you understand? I have been driving myself crazy." He stood to cross the room, and Molly noted with despair that he was slightly limping. "And I called you here because I think that you're the only one of his friends who actually believes that he was not a fake." His voice broke at the end of the sentence, and the sound jerked a tear into her eye. "And I knew that you care, and I just wanted to see if there was anything you wanted before I…" he trailed off with a sigh and his shoulders sagged.

"John, please don't go," she found herself saying. She wished she could just break it all to him. She wished she could drag him out of this dark corner he'd been living in. She wished she could tell him the truth. She wished she could bring Sherlock home with a "Surprise!" and a smile. She wished none of this had ever happened. She wished he knew that this torture was killing Sherlock as much as it was killing him. For a moment, she almost did. "Sherlock isn't dead," was right on the tip of her tongue.

"I'm sorry, Molly." John limped back towards her and put the skull in her hand. "Take care of Freddy. And take care of yourself." He touched her shoulder gently and tried to smile. "You're welcome to anything you like. And text me if you need anything. Anything, Molly. But I am leaving."

She was staring down at Freddy's pallid skull when she heard the squeaking stairs echo John's footsteps, then the opening of the door as he left.

John turned his coat up against the cold weather as he flung the door to 221B wide open, but didn't step out. The face that greeted him looked about as surprised as he did, standing on the threshold. "This the residence of Sherlock Holmes?"

John looked the man up and down as he forced down the emotions raging around inside his head. "No, he's dead," was the statement he could muster.

The man shifted on his feet and extended a parcel. "Well I've got a delivery for him. You a friend?"

Watson eyed the package warily, but did not take it. "I was… who are you?" he certainly didn't look like a mailman.

The stranger pushed his burden into John's arms and backed up. "She just said to deliver the package, and that's what I'm doing. I'm not gettin' involved."

"Just wait a second, who are you!" John took a step out of the apartment and the mystery man fled. He would have given chase, but his leg prohibited him. "I'm with the police!" he tried, but the delivery man didn't stop for a moment. He turned round the corner and that was the last he saw of him. "Sort of," he added lamely.

The package was heavy but flexible, and it's rectangular shape led him to believe it was a book. As he ripped off the envelope, his theory was validated. _And The Blue Phone Rang by Meredith Hale._ It seemed to Watson to be your typical mystery novel – the cover depicted a long, white hand extending from the right hand of the cover for an old fashioned telephone smack in the middle, painted blue. It was one of those telephones with the rotating disk for dialing, and it was caked in a thin layer of dirt around the edge, as if it'd been dug up. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked at the hand; it looked almost exactly like the spindly, pale fingers he'd watched at work in a hundred crime scenes. But no – the fingertips were painted a pale shade of red that was chipping and cracked and stood blatantly out against the grey background. A woman's hands. His mind was getting the better of him…. again.

He flipped open to the first page, and the dedication made his blood run icy.

_To John:_

_Answer the phone._

He yelped when his mobile buzzed in his pocket and dropped the book. When he extracted it from his jacket, the caller I.D. stated the caller as UNKNOWN. He slid to answer it. "Who is this?"

_Dr. Watson, I presume?_ A calculated voice seeped through the speaker, but he could be sure it was a woman.

He glanced back down at the title. "Meredith Hale?"

There was a pause. _Correct._

"Who the hell are you?"

_Being antagonistic is understandable but unnecessary, Dr. Watson, I'm calling you as a… friend. _

"Well, you're a very creepy and suspicious friend, if you don't mind me saying. What do you want?"

_I just called to give you a piece of information you might find interesting._

Watson chuckled as he flipped through the five hundred pages in his hands. "Yeah, so you decided to write a novel? Don't you have texting? It's a lot less time consuming."

_Sherlock is alive._

Watson felt his breath being sucked away like he'd suddenly been thrown into outer space. "Is this some kind of practical joke?" he managed to say, but he felt like throwing the book in the street and maybe the phone along with it.

There was a sigh on the other end. _John, read the book. And cancel your plans in Bath. _

"How in the world do you know about that? Why should I believe you?"

_Because you want to._ The phone disconnected.


	3. Chapter 3: Along Came a Spider

Along Came a Spider

Meanwhile in Molly's apartment, Sherlock sat with his fingertips steepled beneath his chin, his violin resting on his lap, leaning straight up and down against his chest. His legs were folded Indian style, elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward slightly with his eyes opened and staring at the beat up tabletop in front of him, and more specifically, at the twin cans taking up residence on the counter. Judging by the erosion of the paint and the loss of elasticity in the string connecting the cans, he estimated they'd been buried beneath a thin layer of sediment for at least three years. There were no fingerprints, or DNA, or anything conclusive to be found from further examination. But he didn't need to examine them in order to know what they meant.

No! Sherlock growled to himself and wrapped his robe around him, flopping backwards on the couch into a sulk, cradling the violin. He was there when she flat-lined. He could see Mycroft lift the pale white sheet over her face, her strawberry golden curls and porcelain skin disappearing beneath the pallid cover. Mycroft made the arrangements. There hadn't been a service – they were both far too rational for that. No need whimpering over a grave that contained nothing more than the empty shell of a girl they had barely known, let alone cared for. Of course, he came to pay his respects, thinking how stark the freshly dug rectangle of dirt looked beside the crisp green lawns.

He pulled that image into his mind and magnified. He examined every square inch of that freshly dug grave. Nothing. Not a clue, not a trace. But they had to have been there! The amount of decay proved it – they had to have been buried for at least three years.

"Oh." His eyes snapped wide open and he snatched the cans off the table. "Oh, you clever girl!" He bounced off the couch - but caught his violin before it smashed on the coffee table - then bounded into the kitchen, sliding to a halt by the sink where he'd set up a makeshift lab. "Brilliant, brilliant!" he whispered as he took a seat on the barstool before the microscope he'd insisted remain there, much to Molly's obvious dismay, but reluctant compliance. Oh, she always complied with him. A small chuckle escaped his throat while the barstool whined as it scraped against the flagstone, he scooting closer to the counter.

He went to work excavating the dirt from the grooves on the top and bottom of the can, which were still chock full of earth. Particles began to spread and disperse across the counter as he picked his way through the top layer. He hit a small seam where the dirt was less compacted, and a miniature rockslide poured out. But this dirt was not the same rich brown of the cemetery. It was gray and sandy, powdery to the touch. He let out one small cry of exclamation, "Hah!" and turned to boast his discovery to John-

The room was empty. He remembered he was not in Baker Street, and John was not watching over his shoulder, being amazed and flattering, or even sitting by the window blogging like a prat. Sherlock took a breath. "Soon, John. Loose ends, you know. I can't abide them."

-the web of Moriarty was still humming, though the spider had been squashed. Lieutenants on the outskirts of the web were watching and waiting for the slightest disturbance, ready to enact revenge for their boss' untimely death. They were still more than willing to exact vengeance on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson should Sherlock happen to reappear. Not that they expected him to. His only strength at the moment would be surprise. He had to bide his time and take them out one by one. It was not going to be a quick or painless process. But it was the only process that would keep his friends safe. His own web had begun weaving itself as he strode amongst them unsuspected. Who was the spider now?

Sherlock found that it still irked him that Moriarty had overlooked an essential link in the chain to bring him down: Molly. The person he'd used to gain access to Sherlock in the first place had been completely overlooked. It was a good thing for Sherlock, but it reinforced something Molly had said to him that nagged at the surprisingly loyal part of him, "I don't count."

But of course, she counted. Moriarty had been an idiot in the end. Molly had counted to the people that mattered. She'd counted to him. She _did _count to him. With her awkward laugh and bubbly way of speaking that always put him off guard. At one time, he thought her imbecilic. Now he found it… well… endearing.

Endearing? Good God. As you were, Sherlock:

Different dirt meant different burial site for three years. It had only been recently that the telephone cans had been moved to Merrick's grave. _The _grave, he corrected, not hers. There was no sign of the secondary sediment elsewhere on the can, so it'd been cleaned prior to moving. Now the presence of dirt in the grooves would usually mean the person had been clumsy in their cleaning, but no, this had been left as a clue. There in plain sight for anyone who cared to look. For anyone who cared to scratch the surface.

A pang of guilt shot through him as he realized he'd never even missed the tin cans.

But if these cans meant what he thought they meant, he had every reason to be elated.

Merrick was trying to get in touch with him. And obviously it followed: she was alive. And she'd left him a map, and the dirt was his first stop on the said map AND the first clue. She'd always liked treasure maps, he remembered. When they were still quite young, she made elaborate scavenger hunts and buried treasure, then leave him clues. They were the pirates. Mycroft was always the Royal British Navy who seized their Spanish doubloons.

Now to identify the mystery dirt. "The game is afoot," he whispered their childhood motto into the microscope, and the glass fogged momentarily. "Where are you, Merri?"


	4. Chapter 4: The Lonesome January

Lonesome January

John was still standing at the base of the stairs when Molly started her descent. "Everything all right? I heard you yelling…" she caught sight of the book in his hands. "You going to read with the door open?"

In answer to her question, he shut the door and turned to her. "Take your jacket back off; you're going to want to hear this."

"Umm…" Molly stepped to the side of the stairs as John hurried back up. "Okay…" she held up Freddy. "Are you keeping the skull then?"

"Can you put the kettle back on?" was the muffled reply she heard from the upstairs flat.

She trudged back up, unsure where this was going, but she had a feeling her night was about to become very interesting. Perhaps a bit too interesting for her liking…

_January Helena Witherton was a sensible enough young woman. She was well-educated, coifed, and steady. The last thing she happened to be was superstitious. January was severely grounded and rational in every school of thought. _

_ But January unraveled a bit when Simon passed away. Nervous habits she thought she'd broken as a child resurfaced, she was depressed, she became obsessive. Which was why the blue phone didn't give her much of a shock. January merely thought she'd gone mental. _

_ Simon's death must have pushed her over the edge, she decided. After all, one does unscrew a few bolts after one finds one's best friend murdered with a sledgehammer. These things were bound to happen. It shouldn't come as any surprise; and it certainly didn't. And if she'd gone postal, she may as well enjoy it while she could, before they locked her away in a white room without doors and friendly nurses with needles and pins for sidekicks…_

Molly shivered. "You really going to read that thing?"

John looked up from his narration. "You know you don't have to listen."

"You believe her then? The voice on the phone?" Molly wasn't sure if she should be encouraging this. Sherlock would have a fit. And besides, the book gave her the willies, and they weren't a page in yet.

"If it isn't real, then it's a ridiculously elaborate hoax someone is playing. January Helena Witherton?"

"… yeah…?"

The doctor put a hand on his chest. "John Hamish Watson..?"

A little icy hand ran up Molly's spine. "All right, that's freaky."

Watson returned his attention to the book. "You're telling me."

"If it's about you, then why are you a girl?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Feminist? Or perhaps it'd have been too blatant? Does it matter?" He continued in halting speech:

_ Simon Hedgewick. That's what the gravestone said all right. But the cold black letters staring up at her didn't convince her. They mocked her. They hissed and giggled and reminded her how alone she was now. With malicious monotony they broke the little pieces of her heart into tinier and tinier shards as she prayed for a miracle. Any miracle. _

_ But Simon wasn't coming back. His killers had done a thorough job of him, and gotten clean away. She'd tried to get the police involved, but the case was closed – Simon Hedgewick was a cold trail leading away from a cold blooded murder that would never be solved. Sure, they had their suspects, but they certainly couldn't link them to the homicide. Not when their best suspect had an air tight alibi – dead, perhaps by Simon himself. Jenson Matthews, crime lord extraordinaire, deceased, some say by his own hand, some say by Hedgewick. The point was, January wasn't going to get any closure by that line of pursuit. _

_ January turned her head to listen to a mysterious bird song. No, the song had stopped. Then the song started again. Gone! What a strange bird call…_

_ Not a bird call. A phone call. She checked her pockets, but her mobile was still and dark. No one else roamed the cemetery. Yet, she could swear with all certainty that there was a phone ringing nearby. _

_ The ground beneath her feet felt strange, as if she were standing over a small tremor. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized the tremors and the ring of the phone corresponded in time. A muffled, tremulous tenor ringing was coming, not from the air._

_ From the grave._

_ That was four rings now. Perhaps four more before the call was disconnected. At least, if it was a normal phone, that's what she would imagine. January stood stock still a moment longer as she stared down at the impossible sound coming from the dry earth. Rapidly pit-pat went her heart as she eased herself down to kneel on the grave. She put her hands down near the marker; the vibration increased._

_ Ripping her gloves off, she dug her freshly painted nails into the dirt, clawing at the loosely packed dirt. It was all wrong, but every sense in her body screamed to answer the bloody phone. _

_ But who could possibly be ringing a phone buried in the grave of a dead friend?_

_ Did it matter?_

_ Her nails hit something and she yanked it out of the ground. The ringing stopped. _

_ The ringing stopped; because she'd picked up the receiver. A pale blue, corded receiver._

_ "Hello?"_


End file.
